“Tom Fuentes’ so-called ‘fundraiser’”

—SUCH WAS THE TITLE of Frank Mickadeit’s column this morning in the OC Register.

Why “so-called”? Because the venerable (and feared and despised) Mr. Fuentes is very ill and is not likely to still hold his trusteeship when campaign time rolls around many months from now.

Naturally, this raises questions about last week's "fundraiser." Well, they’re obvious, so I'll leave it at that.

Here’s Mickadeit’s account of last week’s fundraiser, which, you’ll note, is far less colorful than the Reb’s:

Tom Fuentes' so-called ‘fundraiser': O.C. legend in cancer fight

As chairman of the Orange County Republican Party for two decades, Tom Fuentes presided over or witnessed many of Orange County's most significant political events. On Friday night, he was actually the focal point of one: the most impressive school-board fundraiser in the county's history.

Of course, calling the $150-a-plate dinner at the Balboa Bay Club a fundraiser for his re-election to the south-county college board (an election that, as emcee Keith Carlson wryly noted, is “a very, very close 53 weeks” away) was a pretext.

It was in fact a tribute dinner for a man who now holds the title of “chairman emeritus” and is one of the three or four people who had the most to do with putting Orange County on the national political map. The dinner speakers and Tom himself made a few references to an illness he hasn't wanted to publicly discuss until now.

I pulled up to the club about 5:45 and a familiar silver Caddy was right in front of me in the valet line. It was identical to the one Tom and I'd done our garage sale-ing in a few years ago, shortly after he stepped down as party chairman. I watched Tom slowly unfold himself from behind the wheel, greet the valet boy (he knows all their names) and step onto the sidewalk to shake hands with a well-wisher. (His wife, Jolene, and their youngest son, Joey, were already inside with the other 280 or so guests.)

Tom looked thinner and a little grayer. We walked together, slowly, past Duke's bar and the classic John Wayne portrait he'd help secure for it, and down that great hallway to the grand ballroom. He had that big, abundant Tom smile and said he'd be going to UCLA Medical Center today to continue his fight.

“Not too bad,” he said when I asked him how he felt. And then, as we entered the foyer just outside the ballroom, where a cocktail hour was in progress, his friends started to mob and I knew I'd lost him for the rest of the night.

Bruce Hershenson, whom Tom seems to admire as much as any politico, sat next to him at the head table. Around the room were the faces of the county Republican Party past (Lois Lundberg), present (Scott Baugh) and future (Shawn Fago, Anthony Kuo). The old lions: Ken Tait, Tom Malcolm, Buck Johns. The tireless volunteers: Emily Sanford, Mary Young. I sat next to Kathryn Carvelli, who met her husband, John, when she was working as a secretary for Fuentes at the party headquarters in the '80s. “There are people here I haven't seen in 20 years,” she told me.

While we ate, a slide show ran continuously on a screen over the stage. Tom with the legends: Reagan, John Paul II, Nixon, Thatcher. Tom with the GOP stalwarts: Kemp, Gingrich, Goldwater. Tom with the notorious: Ollie North, Fawn Hall (!), Alberto Gonzales. Tom with the all-but-forgotten: S. I. Hayakawa, John Schmitz, Dan Quayle. And perhaps most amusing, Tom with a big, furry '70's mustache. (“Doesn't he look like Juan Valdez?” Sharyn Buffa whispered.)

After dinner, baritone Robbie Britt sang, “Try to Remember,” and John Carvelli remembered that Jerry Orbach sang it originally off Broadway, and I argued (wrongly) it was Ed Ames. I'm a sucker for that song.

The tributes began, capped by Hershenson, who reminded everyone what has really set Tom apart in politics. He “treats issues and policies as more important than himself.”

Which might sound funny to anyone who has ever seen Tom's office with all the photos of him with the important political figures of his time, or see the pride he takes in his membership in the Knights of Malta or his honorary doctorate. He's not without ego–but he really is more about promoting his ideals. Even those who revile his politics or his means to his ends would have to admit that.

Tom spoke for just six minutes. He wanted to hear people laugh. “It's good to see all of you,” he said, adding, “under the circumstances it just good to be seen.”

Then: “There are so many Republicans in the room tonight.” And, alluding to the Carona indictment, which dominated the table talk all evening, he added, “The rest of them are meeting with their lawyers.”

I called Tom yesterday to see how public he wanted to be about his illness. He has liver cancer, he says, and is hoping for a transplant. In the meantime, he is undergoing chemo, which he says is really the only painful part of the experience.

“I'm up for the fight,” he said. “I'm up for the battle.”

Now, I honestly don't wish for Mr. Fuentes to experience calamity or pain, although anyone who has followed his career can have no doubt that he is plenty petty enough to wish for mine. But I must say that, of all the people I have encountered in my life, he is the most manifestly mean and rotten of those that I can think of. And I'm not referring to his unfortunate politics either. I can imagine a person having his political and social values (Neanderthal) and having integrity, being kind, etc. (Here is one place where I part ways with many of my progressive friends.)

What makes me call him rotten? It's what the man does to his enemies, the stunning means he consistently chooses to attain his ends, the ugliness of his alliances, his spectacular pettiness, and so on.

Well, he's dying, and that's sad. It really is. And so we're not supposed to say bad things about a dying fellow. But, as this "fundraiser" illustrates, he will continue to pursue his agenda in his customarily appalling ways to the bitter end. And, to the bitter end, he will affect piety and he will demonize his opponents and pronounce them wicked. He will be cruel, petty, and unprincipled. He will cheat. He will lie.

And so I say: it's too bad about Tom Fuentes. But, my God the man is rotten. —CW

* * * *

Do these names ring a bell?

• Remember when Raghu asked religious crooner Robbie Britt to sing for a district opening session? (See Once more with the “new” Raghu) Perfect. Britt hangs out with the likes of Benny Hinn, so he's pretty impressive.

• Some will remember that, 8 or 9 years ago, Anthony Kuo was Mathur’s go-to student lackey at IVC. When Mathur wanted his pal Rodney Poindexter to receive the Administrator of the Year award (nope, I'm not making this up), Kuo, as the leader of student government, made it so. When Mathur needed someone to defend him in the newspapers, Kuo obliged with remarkably error-laden letters. Nowadays, Kuo's still that way, only he's that way in the local Republican hierarchy.

He'll fit in nicely.

An Evening With Tom Fuentes and Friends

(REBEL GIRL, with a big assist from RED EMMA)

A PALL fell over the festivities in the Grand Ballroom of the Balboa Bay Club last Thursday night, the 1st of November. The gala event, billed as "An Evening with Tom Fuentes and Friends" (tickets $150.00 a head) was a fundraiser for a committee with the amusing, jejeune name of The Committee to Re-Elect Tom Fuentes. Fuentes, as many of you know, has served on the board of the South Orange County Community College District for some years now, so that the committee's moniker suggested straightforwardness and straightshootery.

The Grand Ballroom was full to its grand 7,000 square foot capacity with 300 plus celebrants in attendance. The lights twinkled, the ice cubes tinkled, the necks were wrinkled. Beyond the bay windows, the sun set into the Pacific, as in postcards and direct mail appeals. Somewhere out there to the west, in Newport Harbor (famously dredged by Roosevelt's progressive WPA), John Wayne's luxurious yacht, the Wild Goose, was moored, waiting. This was the Day of the Dead, after all, El Dia de los Muertos , and locals have, for years sworn they've seen the ghost of the Duke and dear departed friends Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and Bob Hope aboard the former minesweeper for an evening cruise and hand of poker.

Back in the Grand Ballroom, that pall from my opening invocation settled, as I mentioned, like so much dirty, toxic ash from the week-long wildfires burning in the local canyons. —You know, the so-called "Santiago" Fire, the hungry one wreaking its terror still, the cataclysm that might have been curtailed had these Captains of Industry (Ahoy!) and Business Leaders (all graduates of Buy Low Sell High), Orange County's mean and mighty, had the foresight or humanity to fund the purchase of more than only two measly helicopters—what somebody amusingly calls the "first responder air fleet"—for what the U.S. census accurately identifies as the second most populous county in the state, the fifth so in the nation, and one of the wealthiest places in the world. But two years ago they'd decided that the OC Fire Authority didn't need any more funds for flying machines—though, as it happened, the Sheriff's Department did, and for what, exactly, we wonder, Hmmm?


No, not even the good humor and hospitality of the evening's keynote speaker, the inimitable Bruce Herschenson, could dispel the gloom and pallage. Not the hors d'ouevres. Not the booze. Not the swag stacked outside the ballroom's doors, where secret handshakes were exchanged and attendees were given free ceremonial robes to don for the revelry a la the Bohemian Grove.

Herschenson, like many of those in attendance, wore the required costume too, a plush white terry cloth robe embroidered with the Balboa Bay Club insignia: a Balboan in docksiders, smoking a cigar, clubbing an illegal immigrant, on a field of strawberries, the red juice of the fruit mingling with the blood from the open wound. Bruce's robe was sashed low and allowed a few grey chest hairs to peek out—but not even the sight of those frisky follicles nor Herschenson's own powerful charm could lighten the gloomy mood.

Not even the ebullient and fantasical Raghu Mathur, also wearing a monogrammed robe, this one adorned with his official SOCCCD badge and American flag pin, could lighten the mood. He looked especially peppy as he worked the room, pressing flesh with those others similarly clad: the trio of Supervisors (Bates, Moorlach and Campbell), Congressman Rohrabacher, Assemblymen Silva and deVore.

But why the pall? Were they perhaps worried, like most of the county, about those displaced canyon residents, their homes and horses, goats and llamas? Maybe they were concerned about those hard-working firefighters, selfless brave heroes this week, selfish money-grubbing lazy civil servants when next their contracts were up for negotiation? Or perhaps the gang was still smarting over their stinging defeat in l'affaire Chemerinsky? Ouch. Still stinger-inskies.

No. One of their own was missing tonight, at what should have been the Cinderella's Ball of Orange County. Actually, more than one.

America's Sheriff, Mike Carona, freshly and firmly indicted along with his two (count 'em, two!) Debbies, could not be seen in public so soon after his arraignment. Especially since so many in the room were now busy paddling away from his sinking ship, which we like to call the Cooked Goose or, to embrace further easy poultryesque metaphor, the Dead Duck. His spokesman, attorney Mike Schroeder, lingered mysteriously in faraway and exotic Amsterdam, sending a bouquet of tulips and his regrets. Don Haidl, he of the big checks, yachts, private plane and, no doubt, plea bargain in exchange for his testimony against Carona was, well, a no-show. And George Jaramillo, well, his appeal for a Big House furlough to attend the festivities was, strangely, not granted. Of course, Joe Cavallo, a former close Carona amigo and former George Jaramillo and Greg Haidl abogado, also was missing in action, due, no doubt to his recent guilty plea to three felonies (three, count 'em, three!) for a scheme that had bail bondsmen calling him from the county jail to get work, which is indeed nice work if you can get it.

Soon the party of sour celebrants decamps to the pier. Replacing their comfy robes with sailor suits (think Shirley Temple—the star, not the drink) these Titans of OC, their futures perhaps fading as quickly as the fabled green flash on the horizon, board the Wild Goose and join its ghosts. The yacht weighs anchor and chugs out into the back bay, where, for awhile, all is as it should be. Then, the smoke from the east begins to drift in, as does the echo of the sound of two lone fire helicopters, chop chop chop, above the flames.

The foothills look like tiny volcanoes.

Appearances are deceiving

I WAS HAVING a late lunch with my sister Fannie today here near Trabuco Canyon (we were in Live Oak Canyon, near Hamilton Truck Trail).

She's visiting from up north.

Fannie drew my attention to the smoke billowing from behind Modjeska Peak, over to the northeast.

“Wow,” she said. “How often do you see that?”

Actually, we'd seen quite a lot of it in the last two weeks. We were under the impression that firefighters were going to make great headway against the Santiago fire today, but that was hard to believe, looking at that plume of white smoke, and listening to all of the helicopters coming and going and disappearing over the mountains.

But appearances are deceiving.

Evidently, 3000 Silverado Canyon residents were allowed to return to their homes this afternoon, so things must be looking up. At about 5:00 p.m., the OC Reg reported that the “fire continues to burn above Silverado Canyon and on the northeast side of…Modjeska Peak. The fire is within established containment lines.”

Sounds good.


Saw Limber Lou over at Jules & Cowboy Keith’s place tonight. Jules told me that the Cowboy is up in Bridgeport, herding cattle. He goes up there each year.

But Lou, he kept bringing me to a spot on the floor and telling me there was a body there.

“I guess so,” I said. I played along, but not to Limber Lou's satisfaction evidently. He ran off.

Little kids—or at least the little kids I know—seem much more imaginative than they used to be around Halloween time. Last night, Sassy Sarah, who is about Lou's age, told me about a unicorn who swirled in the throat of an enormous dinosaur. She said something about a big eyeball, too. Then she looked at me.

Guess so.

(Lou speaking with an imaginary friend.)

Home (fire)

WE'RE BACK, just like the goats down on Modjeska Canyon Road. Those two goats, by the way, used to live on San Clemente Island and were rescued before they could be shot. The plan was that they'd join the local landscaping crew but they proved too wild for that and so now they just live on the side of the road. We often stop on the way home from school and feed them the leftovers from our lunches.

It's nice to see them again.

It's nice to see everyone again.

We've been home since Halloween, which featured an evening shindig at the Modjeska Fire Station #16, down the hill. They put on an open house every year but this year's circumstances transformed it into a fundraiser and potluck. It was still too dangerous for the kids to trick-or-treat—so all the treats were provided on site and a few tricks as well.

Everyone was there, including FEMA and Supervisor Bill "No Extra $$ for the Fire Authority" Campbell, but the stars of the evening were the local fire crew, the majority volunteer crew who fought to defend our homes—and their own.

Earlier in the week, when we were still the guests of our good pals in Lake Forest, we went to LA for the big Springsteen show. Other than deep exhaustion and anxiety and smoke-irritated lungs, I couldn't think of a reason not to go, so go we went, the guests of another good pal. It turned into a date, the kind of afternoon-evening escapade that we hadn't had in years.

Time and traffic were on our side, so we dropped by the Julius Shulman show at the downtown LA Central Library (still inexplicably named for Richard Riordan). You know Shulman's work even if you think you don't. Then a light dinner at Ciudad—then Bruce and the E-Street Band at the Sports Arena.

Along the way, we bumped into California State Librarian and historian Kevin Starr in downtown LA and then, as we entered the Arena, we spied the doctor who delivered our son some five years ago descending the stairs in front of us. The good doctor, still looking like a teenager, was taking his father to see the Boss. Some of you remember the good doctor's wife who once was student at IVC.

Later in the evening after a 2 and half hour set, so hot and sweaty that two women fainted in the audience, we met up with our benefactor friend, a fine fellow with whom we have shared many concerts and campaigns during the last twenty years. Another friend wasn't in attendance that night, recovering from his third brain sugery in twelve months. But my pal reminded me that Bruce had sung his favorite song:

Now on the street tonight the lights grow dim
the walls of my room are closing in
There's a war outside still raging
You say it ain't ours anymore to win
I want to sleep beneath peaceful skies in my lover's bed
with a wide open country in my eyes
and these romantic dreams in my head

We made a promise we swore we'd always remember
No retreat, believe me, no surrender

It helped, the rock 'n roll, the city of people.

We ended the week feeling pretty damn sick and tired but awfully awfully grateful for what we got. We got a lot.

Thanks!

Just when is enough enough?

1. CORRUPT RAT BASTARDs A and B.

I'm told that a certain someone has “withdrawn” his application to serve as dean of IVC’s Schools of Humanities & Languages and Fine Arts. (Raghu's latest infamy is known all over campus.)

What was Raghu thinking? And why does he think that he can dictate who will be a dean at Irvine Valley College?

I suppose we should ask Mr. Fuentes, Mr. Williams, Mr. Lang, and Mr. Wagner. They seem to love the guy, especially when he's rotten and incompetent. Maybe he'll get another raise.

Just when is enough enough?

2. CORRUPT RAT BASTARD C.

[Sheriff Mike] Carona was known for his caring touch at the funerals of fallen deputies. He could be stoic and tearful. The same jaw that jutted into the air at his court appearance would tremble ever so slightly at the funerals. He was strong yet caring. He even went so far as to buy gifts for the children of fallen officers.

At least that was his public persona. But the indictment paints a different picture of a man who with his friends allegedly schemed to profit off widows. (OC Reg)

Just how rotten can a pious Christian, IVC “Hometown Hero,” and “America’s Sheriff” be?

Well, pretty goddam rotten. Check out the story in today’s Times (Carona allegedly steered deputy's widow to co-conspirator: Federal indictment against the Orange County sheriff alleges kickback from settlement) and yesterday’s OC Reg (Sheriff accused in kickback plot: Sheriff's officials got portion of $340,000 meant for wife of deputy who died in 2001, indictment alleges).

It's only a matter of time, of course, before Carona resigns.

Labradoodle in Trabuco Canyon

MY SISTER FANNIE is down in So Cal visiting. This afternoon, she decided to go check out this little place in Trabuco Canyon that she thinks she might want to buy. She asked me to tag along.

"Maybe there'll be a fire sale," I said.

"Shuddup little brother," said Fannie. "Let's go."

The house was on top of a hill with a great view of Santiago and Modjeska Peaks—which, by the way, seemed to be on fire.


(Yep, the Santiago fire is still burning, and if firefighters don't puff it out soon, we're in trouble, cuz the winds are returning tomorrow!)

The house was a bit of a wreck. A fixer-upper. Fannie didn't mind. She had lots of ideas.

She told me to take pics, so I did.

The woman who owns the house wasn't home, but the nice realtor lady knew her way around and showed us stuff. We met the cat and the dog, who were both very nice.

"I think the dog is a labradoodle," said the realtor lady.

I stared into space. "Labra—doodle," I thought.

I think Fannie liked the place.

"Maybe you oughta wait until that fire gets a bit closer before making an offer," I said.

"Shuddup. Just take more pics," said Fannie.

So I did.

IVC's "Hometown Hero" in the spotlight!

The rumor is that Chancellor Raghu P. Mathur is insisting that Mike Carona be interviewed for the newly-opened Dean spot over at Humanities/Languages & Fine Arts.

But that's just silly. Why, Carona is corrupt!

(Photo: OC Register)